


Without You

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 09:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7751713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You shouldn’t keep secrets!</i> Porthos had said.  “I know why you’re angry with me,” Aramis says to Porthos, quietly.  (Coda fic for 3x08)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Without You

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from JL that requested, "Follow-up to the SHOOT US BOTH / SHUT UP! which I know you'll write anyway but here you can blame me for it now." Which, yep, this is her fault. Also the show's fault because honestly /shoves Athos and his arbitrary hate boner for villain out of that scene so I can get some portamis schmoop. But anyway.

He first tries to talk to Porthos when they’re breaking up camp. 

“Porthos,” he says, quiet at first, stepping up to stand beside him. Porthos is watching the recruits break down the tents and douse the fires with the water from the nearby stream. He says nothing, hands folded in front of him. Gripping them tight. Aramis can see they’re shaking still. 

The _stop!_ had been so desperate, he thinks. The moment Porthos ran his way down the steps in pursuit of a locked up Aramis. The _stop!_ ringing out and echoing against the stone facing. The gun, pointed, shaking – Aramis always knew how Porthos struggled with shooting, knew that upset as he was, it’d be too difficult for him to aim properly and not hit Aramis—

Porthos says nothing. Just watches the recruits. Aramis waits, thinks that Porthos will eventually say something. But nothing comes. He rubs at his cheek absently, the ringing in his ears still a low annoyance since Athos’ shot right near his ear. 

Porthos’ hands had been shaking. Hesitation. He could hardly hold the thing steady, trying so desperately—

_Shoot us both!_ Aramis had shouted. _Shut up!_ had been Porthos’ response, because of course that had been Porthos’ response. Even if it was the wrong one. If he’d just shot, if he’d just hit the both of them—

Athos ultimately directs them to go back to Paris and they move. Porthos stays in his spot for a short moment, breathes, and then turns to follow the rest of them. Still he does not speak a word. 

“Porthos,” Aramis offers, a small question in his tone, as they ride back to Paris. He’s desperate to get back there, of course, to make sure everything—

But he also feels the cold twisting in his heart, the need to see Porthos’ eyes, for him to look at him. But still Porthos says nothing. He is not unfamiliar with this response – remembers all too well their reunion at the monastery all those months back. Eventually, Porthos will tell him what’s wrong. Aramis already knows. But this—

Porthos spurs his horse on. They pick up the pace. 

And then things quickly spiral from there. The Queen and the filth on the pages across Paris, Sylvie, Athos—

Aramis leaves Treville’s office after the abrupt dismissal and he still feels shaken. He knows what he did was right, even if everything has fallen apart like this. Even if—

When he heads back to the garrison, only Porthos is there, at the table – cleaning his pistol. The movements are meticulous but unfocused, just a way to keep the hands busy. Porthos glances at him as Aramis approaches, but still says nothing. It’s been hours since Porthos has spoken to him, not since—

_You shouldn’t keep secrets!_

Aramis sits down across from him. Doesn’t say anything, just waits. Meets Porthos’ eyes steadily. Porthos looks at him, his hands still moving to clean the gun – still shaking. Even now, still shaking. There’s still the cut on his face from the fighting before, Porthos’ desperate attempts to get to Aramis hanging from that beam. Aramis thinks, distantly, that maybe he should stitch that up. It’ll scar, if it’s deep enough. 

_You shouldn’t keep secrets!_

“I know why you’re angry with me,” Aramis says, quietly. 

Porthos’ hands still and his expression darkens as he looks at Aramis. Aramis does not flinch, although the urge is there – there are too many people angry with him, too many people he’s disappointed today. But Porthos is—

“I understand why,” Aramis says, quieter still. “And I’m sorry that I had to lie to you.” 

Porthos slams his pistol down – which is really terrible maintenance of a lovingly crafted pistol, Aramis thinks distantly – and stands up abruptly. The bench topples over behind him and he glares at Aramis and then turns away. 

Aramis, fumbling, stands up to follow after him. “Porthos—”

He reaches for him, tries to grasp his shoulder before he can leave—

And then Porthos pivots, turns, and punches him hard in the jaw.

“God!” Aramis gasps out, hand flying to his cheek as he stumbles back in his shock. He can’t recover, though, his entire body still sore and aching from hanging from the rafter for so long. Not that he’d ever put up a fight against Porthos. 

Even when Porthos steps forward and punches him hard in the shoulder. This time Aramis does flinch, his arms sore from the position he had to hold them in, and he bends over a little. 

Porthos says nothing, just slams into him, full-bodied. Aramis doesn’t fight back as Porthos wrestles him to the ground, just tries to fight off the attacks. He feels winded just from this, grunting out, concentrated enough that he can’t even raise a protest. They’re alone in the garrison courtyard and there is no one to rise to his aid – but it’s just as well, if it means that Porthos will finally talk to him. He can’t stand this. 

“Stop!” he gasps out, pushes against Porthos’ shoulders. 

The fight has already seeped out of Aramis. Aside from the initial punch, there’s no force beyond his attacks, aside from the fact that he’s now winded, his back down on the dirt and staring up at Porthos with wide eyes. 

“Porthos!”

And finally, Porthos shouts, “Damn you, Aramis!” 

“I know you’re angry!” Aramis gasps out, body heaving.

“You don’t know _anything_!” Porthos snaps back, eyes wide and haunted, his entire body shaking. Up close, Aramis can see it isn’t anger – not only anger, at least – but too much else, as well. Fear. Pain. The wound on his forehead has split open in their tussle and there’s one little drop of blood sliding down his forehead and over his temple. 

Aramis, selfishly, foolishly – reaches up and wipes the blood away with his thumb before his hand flops down onto the ground, too weak to hold it up for long after the day he’s had. 

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Aramis tells him. “But I had—”

“Shut up!” Porthos snaps. “You think this is about that?”

Aramis clamps his mouth shut, pursing his lips, frowning up at him. 

“Yeah,” Porthos grunts out, wiping at his forehead and staring absently at the blood splayed across his fingers when he draws his hand back. “Yeah, you should have told me.”

Aramis swallows, thankful for a chance to speak – thankful that Porthos is speaking to him at all, even if like this. “The queen asked me to keep it secret.”

“You still should have trusted me,” Porthos snaps back. “Both of you. Both of you should have – both of you should have trusted me.” 

Porthos goes quiet, expression haunted for a moment, and he looks away and blinks rapidly – wipes at his forehead even though aggravating the wound means it won’t clot. Aramis almost says so, but second-guesses it and keeps silent. Lets Porthos speak. 

“It’s not about that,” Porthos says. “I get why you couldn’t tell me. But you still should have.” 

“I know,” Aramis says, hushed. “What is this about, then?” 

Porthos breathes out sharply through his nose and presses a hand to his eyes, rubbing furiously and then scrubbing his hand back – yanking off his bandana and breathing out sharply through his nose, slumping forward. Agitated. Upset. Hurt. 

Aramis, despite himself, reaches for him – touches his cheeks. He whispers, “Porthos…”

Porthos shakes his head, lets Aramis’ hands drop away. Aramis holds his breath, feels uncertain and frantic. His body itches to reach out, to comfort, to make Porthos happy again – to not let him be angry like this, to not let him pull away. They’d made strides in these last months – they were closer again, they were best friends again and now—

Porthos breathes out and says, “How could you think I’d actually kill you?” 

Aramis sucks in a sharp breath. Faintly, he answers, “We’re Musketeers. We must do what’s best for the crown.” 

Porthos looks at him sharply. Aramis doesn’t cower – instead, he feels himself stiffen up, shoulders straightening. 

“How many times have you saved me even when it’d have been better to not bother?” Porthos asks. 

“That’s different,” Aramis argues. 

Porthos shakes his head. “Would you have shot me if I were the captured one?” 

“No,” Aramis admits, though hates to do so. 

“Then why the hell would I shoot you?”

_Because I’m not worth it,_ he wants to say but doesn’t – knows what Porthos’ response would be. He shifts a little beneath Porthos, shakes his head. Says, “I’d hardly be the first man you’d lose. Porthos, you were at war, you… you know what’s expected of us.”

Porthos jerks back, looking at him with wide eyes. “Stop,” he hisses out. “You have no idea what I went through.” 

“I know,” Aramis says, faintly. His entire body feels cold, seeing the haunted look in Porthos’ eyes – seeing, suddenly in a flash, all the years and stories Aramis will never experience, never know. He recalls, distantly, d’Artagnan’s story about Alsace – Porthos being trapped in a Spanish prison, alone and away. Just one man. Easy enough, logically, to leave behind. Except that it’s Porthos. It’s—

“It’s because I lost so many,” Porthos answers, his voice completely different now – pained, far away – “It’s because I lost so many that I wouldn’t be able to handle losing you, too.” 

Porthos bows into himself and punches the ground, hard enough to split a couple knuckles open. 

“Fuck!” Porthos hisses out, not from pain – his other hand wiping out to grab Aramis from his front. He pulls Aramis up into a sitting position. “I spent four years learning to live without you – what the hell makes you think I want to learn that again?” 

His hand curled up in his coat is shaking, Aramis notes, but he’s also looking straight at Porthos – his body pained, twisted up, his heart hammering up into this throat. He can’t breathe. 

“I learned to live without you,” Porthos whispers, and there’s no mistaking the glint in Porthos’ eyes, the edge of anger betraying tears. “And I hated every moment of it.” 

“Porthos—”

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Porthos interrupts. “What makes you think I could willingly make it so that’s true? How could I kill you willingly?” 

He shoves Aramis back down and he hits his head hard against the ground. He flinches, touches the back of his head, and lifts his hand to press to Porthos’ chest. He shoves, hard enough to get Porthos to back up so he can sit up properly, rubbing his head and thankful there’s no blood when he pulls his hand away. 

“Porthos, listen to me…” Aramis says, hushed, reaching for Porthos. Porthos tenses up, but ultimately lets Aramis press his hand to his shoulder, slide up over his neck and against his cheek. His thumb brushes, lightly – trying to soothe. But Porthos is too agitated, too pained – he just looks at Aramis like Aramis has slapped him. 

Aramis’ hand stills, briefly, but he takes a moment to collect his words. 

“How am I supposed to live without you?” Porthos asks again. 

“Please,” Aramis whispers, shifting forward – pulling Porthos into a clumsy hug. 

He holds him tight, desperate, his body screaming from the aches and the pains of the day. But this is important. This is too important. Tentatively, Porthos hugs him back after a moment – and Aramis finds himself breathing out, pressing his cheek to Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos’ body is taut – he isn’t breathing. Holding back tears, Aramis thinks, and runs his hands down his back, tries to be soothing. He knows it’s unlikely that Porthos will start crying, much less out here in the courtyard. But he can still do this. He cradles Porthos to him, feels the shift and slide of his breath – once he dares to breathe again – the tension of his muscles. 

“I know I should have shot you both,” Porthos says, voice hollow. “But I couldn’t.”

“I know,” Aramis says. He can clearly picture Porthos in that moment – pistol aimed, but hand shaking, the hesitation in his voice, the desperation in his voice. Aramis closes his eyes. Hugs Porthos closer. Breathes in his scent. 

“Why would you ever ask it of me?” Porthos asks, quiet. 

“I just wanted peace. I’ve – I’ve seen... I’ve seen what it’s done to all of you. What’s happened to _you,_ since returning from the war.”

Porthos breathes in sharply – and says nothing. His hold on Aramis tightens, though, and Aramis ignores the pain that lances through him. It’s been such a long day.

“I can never – I never will know what it was like out there. But how could I sit by and do nothing when there was a chance to end it for you? There was a chance to keep others from having to experience what you all did, too.”

Porthos goes still and silent. 

“I never want anyone else to come back from the war and feel like you have,” Aramis whispers. “I wasn’t there for you – to watch your back. This was a way I thought I could. To make up for it now.” 

They sit in silence after that. A horse whinnies from the stables. There’s chatter in the streets beyond the gate. But for that moment, there is only Aramis and Porthos – clinging to each other in the courtyard of the garrison. After a moment, Porthos’ shoulders hitch. Aramis feels him shift, bow into him, and let out one dry sob. 

Aramis clenches his eyes shut and hugs Porthos tighter, hugs him to him and breathes out as steadily as he can as Porthos cries against his shoulder. It’s only a moment – just one little moment of vulnerability – and then it ends as quickly as it started. Porthos steadies again. His shoulders slump. But he doesn’t pull away from the hug and Aramis doesn’t let him go. 

Slowly, after what feels like an eternity, Porthos draws away from the hug – and looks at him. The anger is still there, but it’s backlit by the pain, the lost chances, the lost years—

Aramis cups his cheek. This time, Porthos lets him. Aramis fans his thumb down over the scar cutting across his eye. Porthos closes his eyes, lets him do as much. 

“I don’t need you to protect me,” Porthos says. 

“I will always look for a way to do that,” Aramis answers. 

It is an old conversation – spans back years, almost a decade now. This time, Porthos does not protest it – just looks infinitely tired, fatigued. Despite where they are, Aramis leans up and kisses his cheek, presses his nose into his hair so they press cheek to cheek. He finds his own breathing is unsteady – unsure when that happened – only fully aware of it once Porthos draws him into his arms. 

They hug again, clinging to one another. The ache in Aramis’ body feels like it is seeping all the way down to his bones, but he accepts it. He breathes out. He lets himself feel this – all of this. 

“Sorry I punched you,” Porthos mutters. 

“I’m sure I’ll look very dashing with a black eye,” Aramis says. Porthos laughs – a small, wet, and tentative sound. But it warms Aramis. He pulls back enough to kiss Porthos’ cheek, gently, lingering – already dangerous enough when they’re outside like this, but spurned on by the need to do that. He whispers out, close to Porthos’ ear, “You can make it up to me.”


End file.
